


Phantom Pain

by waywardlights



Series: Craved and Hated [1]
Category: The Evil Within (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Post-TEW1, lots of gratuitous headcanoning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 07:14:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27179746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardlights/pseuds/waywardlights
Summary: Eighteen months after fleeing Mobius, and one year after Beacon, Darius meets a ghost, and makes a deal.
Relationships: Ruben "Ruvik" Victoriano/Original Character(s)
Series: Craved and Hated [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1983934
Kudos: 2





	Phantom Pain

On the night he had left Beacon in Leslie’s body, Ruben had fallen in love with the rain anew.

He had so rarely gone outside during his years buried in his lab, in his work, in Mobius, and when he had, his skin had been far too sensitive or deadened to appreciate the gentle patter of rain or its heavier, bucketing counterpart. It was a loss that faded with time, as his skin, numb to only the heaviest touches, became accustomed to that state.

It had been storming the day Ruben escaped Beacon, and he still remembered the feel of the rain soaking into Leslie’s Beacon-issued clothing, weighing him down with its cold, heavy pressure. He had relished it then, a reminder that he was _free._

Even a year out in the elements had not diminished that feeling, and today, Ruben clutched it tight to his chest, a sensation that belonged to _him_ _,_ as the sun beamed down upon him hard enough to draw sweat from his skin.

At a run-down motel about an hour outside of Golden Valley, Arizona, a reasonable distance from the borders of both Nevada and California, Ruben laid eyes on an equally run-down sedan that he thought would have looked more appropriate in a museum than a modern motel parking lot. It was the same model he’d been tracking for over a week, the latest in a series of leads pointing him towards the only avenue for aid that might yet yield agreeable results.

And, if Ruben was lucky, the chase would end here.

His quarry was not so foolish as to give his true name, but Ruben was able to inquire at the reception desk--more of a bar, he thought--using his last memories of Archer’s appearance, with the fabricated story that they were meeting here. It was a vague story, but the people in motels like this were rarely the type to ask questions, and Ruben was pointed in the direction of room 27 with little fuss.

Standing outside the door, hair slicked to his head with sweat instead of rain, Ruben was struck by a sudden, almost crippling feeling that it took a long moment for him to identify as _fear_ _._ He had spent a year tracking Archer’s movements with considerable difficulty, a task only made possible with his own knowledge of Archer and his tactics as well as the vague, nebulous neural connection they’d established in Ruben’s first incarnation of STEM, a connection he doubted Archer even knew existed. He had spent a year in this pursuit, yet it would all be meaningless if he could not convince Archer his presence was not a portent of Mobius’ arrival.

Raising his fist, Ruben delivered three heavy knocks to the door, and waited.

When almost a full minute passed in silence, Ruben scowled and leaned around to try and look into the room’s window, but the blinds, unsurprisingly, were drawn, and he saw nothing behind them. Turning over his shoulder, he checked that the old sedan was still present in the parking lot behind him, and didn’t hear the door’s quiet _click_ until it was too late.

A hand grabbed Ruben by the shirt, yanked him within, and shoved him up against the now-closed door. A split second after that, Ruben felt the cold press of a blade under his throat, not quite hard enough to draw blood, and he looked up into the cold blue eyes of Darius Archer.

In many ways, he looked much the same as he had the last time Ruben had seen him, but there were subtle differences: his black hair, which had only just touched the bottoms of his ears before, now reached the back of his neck in thick curls. There was also gray in his hair that hadn’t been there before, at his temples, and his beard had grown out some from the stubble Ruben knew, but wasn’t unkempt. In fact, there was a spot of shaving cream on his throat, and it brought Ruben the realization that Archer must have either been in the middle of shaving, or a shower, since he was shirtless, clad only in jeans, and smelled of plain, generic soap.

All of this Ruben took in at a glance right before Archer said, “You have five seconds to give me a decent reason not to kill you here.”

“You look as though you’ve seen a ghost, Archer.” Ruben raised his chin and met Archer’s gaze defiantly, and Archer didn’t relent, but a pulse of shock flashed across his face before his hard, stony facade returned.

“Maybe that’s because I have.” Archer’s lip curled, and the knife pressed closer. “The person whose voice I’m hearing died over a year ago, after all.”

“Death of the body and death of the mind are different realms,” Ruben countered, “and I could explain that, but I require more than five seconds.”

After a brief standoff as Archer clearly wrestled with an internal struggle, the knife disappeared, and reflexively Ruben reached up to the spot the blade had rested on, but he felt no blood, and had recovered his composure by the time Archer yanked a plain t-shirt from a duffel bag and slipped it on. Taking a seat in the motel room’s desk chair, his face as he looked at Ruben was unreadable.

“Fine,” he finally said, face still giving nothing away, “talk.”

When it looked as though Archer wasn’t about to go for a weapon, Ruben went to sit on the motel room’s bed, Archer’s eyes tracking his movements. “It is true that I was...indisposed, after Mobius took me into custody.” Ruben had been aware, of course, that he would likely have to tell Archer exactly what had happened when Mobius had separated them, but being aware of that fact and putting it into words with the man himself sitting not five feet from Ruben was another thing entirely. “They dissected my body until it failed, removed my brain, and connected it to their bastardized STEM terminal.”

Archer’s face didn’t change, but he blinked as he said, “All right, that explains what happened to your old body. Where’d you get the new flesh suit?”

Ruben closed his eyes as he abruptly remembered just how aggravating Archer could be. “I would appreciate,” he began, measured and clipped, “if you would not call my present form a ‘flesh suit’.”

“Well, clearly they’re as easy to find and put on for you as a suit would be,” Archer’s lip twitched up, but there was no real humor in it, “so it feels fitting.”

“Regardless,” Ruben quickly got the topic back on course, “you remember that I was combing through Beacon patients during my experiments.”

“Yeah, for...what did you call it, compatibility?” Archer frowned, but this time it was thoughtful. “You were looking for someone who could have some of the same control in STEM that you could.”

“And I found someone.” Ruben leaned forward, unexpectedly pleased that Archer had remembered that much about Ruben’s research. “Jimenez acquired my notes--I still don’t know how. Mobius knew that I had wired STEM to work only if I was connected to it.”

“Thus, the vivisection and removing your brain.” Archer connected the pieces, as he had done for many years with Mobius, and it was somehow reassuring to know Archer had not lost his edge--he couldn’t really afford it, being on the run from Mobius as he was. “Still not hearing how you came to inhabit the new flesh suit.”

“It is not--” Ruben released a breath, pushed down his irritation, and refocused. “Despite having no control over the real world, STEM was still _mine_ _,_ and obeyed my whims and wills. Anyone they sent within was met with due wrath, and soon Mobius labeled me a problematic and uncontrollable force within STEM that had to be dealt with. They still needed someone compatible to run it, thanks to my adjustments, and if they could not use me--”

“They needed whoever you found that was compatible.” Archer finished, the realization dawning on him.

“Leslie Withers, a patient at Beacon, was the compatible subject.” Ruben continued, “And he was under Jimenez’s care, who planned to activate Beacon’s newest version of STEM, a wireless one, on a trial run without Mobius’ permission. Mobius didn’t have enough forewarning to stop Jimenez outright, but they did have enough to send one of their own within, to retrieve Leslie Withers at all costs.”

The grin that curved up Archer’s mouth was a sly one. “You turned their own mission against them. They wanted your compatible subject to get out of STEM, but that was exactly what _you_ wanted, too. He was your way out.”

“Just so.” Ruben had, in some inexplicable way, missed this--missed Archer’s wit sharp enough to put together the pieces that Ruben laid out for him, more intelligent than any of his peers had ever given him credit for.

“So you escaped Beacon and STEM in your new flesh suit, and evaded Mobius for a year, and spent that time looking for me.” Archer’s gaze turned thoughtful and unreadable again. “Why?”

That was the one question Ruben couldn’t answer with complete honesty, because it had nothing to do with the science involved in his escape. He could, at least, employ some basic logic. “You are the only Mobius agent who has successfully evaded your former masters longer than 24 hours.” Which, Ruben realized upon speaking the words, was another point--Archer would not have escaped for so long if Ruben hadn’t ensured he wouldn’t be implanted with the same STEM chips every other Mobius agent involved in the project had foisted upon them.

He could have leveraged that to gain Archer’s cooperation, and debated doing exactly that, but hesitated. What came out of Ruben’s mouth instead was, “You wouldn’t be in hiding like this if you didn’t have some desire to see Mobius destroyed. Our goals are the same.”

Archer’s face was still unreadable, then his chin finally dropped as he sighed deeply. Without looking up, he said, “You eaten? I haven’t eaten. Let’s get breakfast.” Rising to his feet, he disappeared into the bathroom again, with the parting words, “And let’s hope you can make a hell of a case.”

The sound of the door shutting with a _click_ felt like a challenge, and Ruben’s eyes flashed, unseen, in acceptance.

* * *

Darius splashed cold water on his face, probably more than he technically needed, to wash off the last of the shaving cream and hopefully knock some sense back into his brain.

He was half convinced that if he went back into that motel room he’d find out the past ten minutes had all just been some weird fucking fever dream, but Darius’ nightmares about Ruben hadn’t ever been this clear, this _conversational._

Instead, his brain only continued to meticulously reconstruct every detail from the last day Darius had been employed by Mobius, right down to the look on Ruben’s face, twisted by the burn scars and the sudden, fiery flash of fury and fear, as three Mobius agents had pulled him away, and another four had subdued Darius himself.

That look was permanently branded into Darius’ eyes for what he had a feeling would be the rest of his fucking _life._

Sometimes the dream ended there, and Darius always awoke soaked in sweat, chest heaving. Sometimes the dream continued on, in fragments: Darius’ escape from his cell, killing every Mobius security guard that got in his way, getting into their files to find wherever the fuck they’d taken Ruben, and finding only his file, with the classification of ‘ASSET: DEACTIVATED’ right at the very top.

It was Mobius’ fancy, eloquent way of saying ‘deader than a fucking doornail’, and when Darius awoke from _those_ versions of the nightmare, he got the sweat and the heaving breath just like normal, but also a deep, sinking pit in the bottom of his stomach that pissed him off, because it _shouldn’t_ have meant anything, but it _did._

It had meant enough that Darius had watched his fellow agents taking Ruben away, that fear and fury twisting his face, and had made a choice.

In the end, he reminded himself, rubbing his face dry with the rough motel towel, that choice had led him _here_ _,_ to a shitty motel in the Middle of Fucking Nowhere, USA, looking over his shoulder every five seconds and expecting Mobius agents to materialize from thin air and haul his ass back to the nearest Mobius facility, where a slow and probably very painful death awaited him.

And until today, all of that had been for _nothing._

Today, though, someone who Darius was almost 100% sure really was Ruben Victoriano with a freshly-hijacked body sat outside the thin bathroom door, less than fifteen feet away, and all of this bullshit finally had a chance to _mean_ something.

_Get your head on straight, Archer, and don’t make a fucking fool of yourself. Victoriano doesn’t give a fuck about your fucking guilt complex or whatever the fuck else you’ve got rattling around in there. Make it sound convincing, and make him work for it._

Looking into the mirror, Darius combed his hair back with his fingers, permanently mussed now that it’d grown out, but Darius couldn’t be bothered to go have it cut but once every few months at best, and it wasn’t quite long enough to need it yet. He looked presentable enough to not look as though he’d just seen a living ghost, even if he had.

“Showtime,” Darius muttered to himself as he swept back out of the bathroom and plucked his leather jacket and duffel from the desk. To Ruben, he said, “Let’s go. I’ll check out on the way.”

With the motel room key returned, Darius walked around the parking lot, passing by the old sedan he’d left outside as a decoy for the past day. He’d known, of course, that _someone_ was following him, but hadn’t been able to determine who. Ruben cast a glance back at the car, confusion written faintly across his now youthfully-handsome face.

“You thought I didn’t know someone was on my tail?” Darius took some enjoyment in the perplexed look on Ruben’s face. “Had a feeling whoever it was would catch up to me within a day.”

“You _expected_ me.”

Darius couldn’t help the snort of a laugh that escaped his throat, empty of humor, as he led them around the back of a motel, where a different car waited. “Believe me, Victoriano, you were just about the _last_ thing I expected.”

About fifty miles down the road, Darius pulled them into the first restaurant he saw off the highway, right on the border junction between Arizona, Nevada, and California. The diner was something pulled right out of America in the 1950’s, Darius thought, with its red leather booths and round stools that had dulled chrome finishes, black checkered tile stained with coffee and food and fuck knew what else.

The smells coming out of the kitchen were good enough that Darius didn’t really give a shit, even if he could see Ruben’s nose wrinkling with barely-suppressed disgust.

“What can I get you boys?” A waitress with her brunette hair tied in a messy bun asked them, pen poised over paper as she popped the gum in her mouth. Despite the distinctly old-fashioned interior of the diner itself, their staff was in standard uniform for restaurants like this: a t-shirt, jeans, and half-folded apron.

“Two coffees, two breakfast platters, and some time.” Darius flashed his most winning grin, a well-practiced mask for when he couldn’t afford to twist arms--figuratively or literally. With a shy smile, the waitress jotted down some short notes, then swept away. Darius turned to look back at Ruben, and saw a flash of something that looked like _anger_ _,_ before it was brushed away and replaced with cool detachment. Darius filed that away for later consideration.

“Protection.” Ruben said first, quiet and controlled even though the diner was all but empty of other patrons, barring a family in the corner booth at the other end of the room. “Ultimately, that is what I need the most. Protection, and a pooling of resources. Our goals align, and you know this.”

“So what, the two of us are gonna fucking break down Mobius’ door and make them pay?” Darius rolled his eyes, balancing his cheek on one propped-up hand while the other drummed on the chipped table top. “Try again.”

Releasing a huff of frustration, Ruben continued, “It would never be so simple, as you know. We are--were--among the two most powerful weapons in Mobius’ arsenal. We are the best placed to do something about them. When the opportunity arises.”

 _“If_ the opportunity arises,” Darius corrected, “and that’s a pretty big _if._ Assuming that _if_ does become a _when_ _,_ what’s your plan then, huh? What makes you think we’d even have _time_ to come up with a plan before they go to ground again? And going in _without_ a plan may as well be fucking suicide.”

“I don’t have one.” Ruben finally snapped, arms folded tightly over his chest as he glared Darius down. “I don’t have a plan, but perhaps the _two_ of us could come up with one. To date, as I said, you are the only Mobius asset who has successfully evaded recapture longer than 24 hours.”

“So are you.”

“Which is just further reason to pool our resources.”

Rubbing the back of his neck, Darius was saved from immediately responding by the arrival of the coffee and food, which he wolfed down with typical speed. Glancing up in the middle of shoving scrambled eggs into his mouth, Darius’ lip curved up into a grin at the sight of Ruben poking at his own meal with a look of abject disgust on his face. “Hey, it’s gotta be better than whatever trash you were eating on your way here,” Darius pointed out, shoving another bite into his mouth as Ruben’s lip twisted.

“I am not wholly convinced that _this_ _,”_ he poked at the food again, “was not acquired from the trash in the first place.”

“Nah,” Darius took a long drink from his coffee and let the warmth settle into his bones, “I’d be able to smell it. It’s fresh. Or as close to ‘fresh’ as food here gets.”

It was only after a long, drawn out hesitation filled with reluctance that Ruben began to eat, and Darius used the time to compile his thoughts. Ruben’s points weren’t terrible ones; even if Darius didn’t relish the idea of the two of them taking on Mobius alone, they did stand a better chance together than apart. Darius himself couldn’t really throw stones about Ruben not having a plan seeing as _his_ only plan right now was ‘keep hauling ass and hope Mobius doesn’t find you’ which was working so far, but not very productive.

If Darius took his own personal feelings out of the equation--which was the _smart_ thing to do--it was still a massive risk.

But, since Darius had spent over a year away from Mobius and their conditioning and their expectations, re-learning that his personal feelings did, in fact, factor into his decisions, there wasn’t a single damn good reason to say no. Not good enough, at least.

“If we’re going to be doing this,” Darius began without looking up, cutting into his stack of pancakes, “there’s going to be conditions.”

Ruben was silent, so Darius set down his silverware, fingers laced together, and looked up. The expression on Ruben’s face was thoughtful, but beyond that, unreadable. “Such as?”

“One,” Darius held up one finger before dropping his hand to the table again, “you get one duffel for your things. Something you can carry if necessary. I’m not carrying _your_ shit around as well as mine. Two,” Darius leaned forward, “when shit hits the fan, you follow my lead. You don’t ask questions, you don’t hesitate, you do what I fucking tell you, _when_ I tell you.”

Ruben’s eyes flashed, and he sat up straighter as he began, “I am not--”

“I listened to you in your lab,” Darius met Ruben’s gaze without flinching, and cut across his protest with a glare of his own, “because that was _your_ territory. I followed your lead because I knew when I was out of my depth. Now it’s time for you to follow mine, because we sure as fuck aren’t in your lab anymore. We’re in the middle of fucking nowhere, with nowhere safe to go, and you said you came to me for protection--best way I can do that is if you _listen_ to me.”

After a brief, silent standoff, Ruben released a frustrated breath and unfolded his arms. “Fine,” he bit out, “is there anything _else?”_

“Third, and last but not least: no killing.” Darius leaned back in his seat, arms still resting on the table’s surface. Ruben was already opening his mouth to protest, but Darius raised one hand to halt it before it could be given voice. “I’m not talking about if Mobius is on our ass firing high-caliber rounds at us, I’m talking about finding people for your research. You shouldn’t even need them anymore, anyway, since we can’t exactly build a mobile STEM terminal out here, but I’m trying to cover all my bases here.” Darius refocused on Ruben as he slumped down into the booth’s seat. “Got it?”

“And if we kill Mobius agents in defense?” Ruben sat up again with a calculating glint in his eye.

Darius shrugged. “Fair game, though it’s a risk--they’ve got all sorts of monitoring equipment wired into them.”

“Which is why,” Ruben began rummaging in one pocket, “I believe it would be worthwhile to discover just _what_ they are implanted with.” Producing something from his pocket, he set it down on the table in front of Darius, and pushing his plate to the side for the moment, Darius picked it up.

At first glance, it was nothing special--vaguely oval-shaped, about the size of a marble, flattened. It was black, with deep umber stains that were probably old, dried blood. Turning the chip over and narrowing his eyes, Darius said, “All right, I’ll bite--what is it?”

“A neural chip,” Ruben leaned back in his own seat, arms folded once again, “which I removed from a pursuing Mobius agent when I first escaped Beacon.”

“I’d need to take it apart to see what exactly it might’ve been programmed to do, but it’ll have to wait until we stop for the night.” Tucking the chip into his jacket pocket, Darius reached out across the table with one hand. “Provided my perfectly reasonable conditions don’t offend the great Ruben Victoriano?”

“Oh, they do,” Ruben’s lip turned up into a sneer as he took Darius’ hand and gave it a firm shake, “but I will tolerate them. For now.”

“Well aren’t you feeling gracious today,” Darius muttered as he let go and moved his plate back within eating range, but a grin curved its way up his cheek, and he didn’t bother trying to hide it.

It wasn’t everything, but it was a hell of a lot more Darius had when he woke up this morning, like something missing had settled firmly back into place, stubbornly unshakable.

_Now you’re just getting philosophical. Keep your fucking head on straight._

At the same time, it was so impossibly surreal to be sitting across from Ruben at some shitty diner in the middle of nowhere, having breakfast, that Darius found himself just basking in it. His whole life was already so fucking weird up to this point--it might as _well_ be happening.

And he might as well enjoy it, he thought as he shoved a bite of pancakes into his mouth, however long it lasted.


End file.
